Work Text:
When Trapper John stood up in front of the bar in the Officer’s Club and said those two words “I’m staying,” a good friend would have been sad for him. A good friend would have cursed the stupidity of the army for not allowing a man with an ulcer to go home, would have cursed the rotten luck that meant Trapper wouldn’t be kissing his little girls hello in a couple days. A good friend would have slung an arm around Trapper, a glass of milk in one hand and told him, “We’ll get ‘em next time.”
Hawkeye Pierce wasn’t a good friend. When his best friend said those two words, instead of feeling regret and sympathy, like a good friend would, he felt a leap in the bottom of his stomach, a leap of guilty pleasure, a feeling he was quite familiar with. Hawkeye didn’t commiserate with his friend, didn’t mourn Trapper’s loss. Instead, he slung an arm around Trapper’s shoulders, teasing him about the care he would be receiving at the nurses’ tender hands, teased him about the amounts of milk he would be drinking, promised that he would take good care of the gin until Trapper could drink again. But then he backed off, pushing Trapper into the arms of Nurse Baker, with a practiced wink and a leer. He stood at the bar, nursing his cold glass of milk, lifting it to his mouth occasionally, then lowering it without a sip. He flirted on instinct when a pretty nurse approached, the words falling out of his mouth by rote, a lusty grin fixing on his face until they slipped away into the dancing. Then it faded and his attention drifted, fingering the ribbon on Trapper’s going-away presents while everyone around him laughed and joked and drank and danced.
Finally, when the Officer’s Club had mostly emptied out, leaving Trapper dancing with Ginger and Henry passed out on the table, Margaret and Frank nowhere to be seen, Hawkeye slipped away, closing the door carefully so as not to disturb the drunken masses. It was close to 3, and the night was clear; Hawkeye could see the stars, even with the electric lamp light filling the compound. If he pretended hard enough, he could almost imagine he was walking down a side street of Crab Apple Cove, and if there was one thing Hawkeye was good at, it was pretending.
He paused in front of the Swamp, glancing through the door briefly before passing dismissively. He walked between the corridors of tents, listening to the hushed giggles and low snores, and quietly hating himself.
“Hawkeye?” a soft voice made him turn, and he saw Father Mulcahy peering out from his tent. The priest stepped out, tying the belt on his robe in a hasty knot. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, Father.” Hawkeye tried for a cheery grin, but it fell flat. Mulcahy peered at him perceptively.
“Would you like to come in?” He opened the door wider in offering.
“Ah, no thanks, Father,” Hawkeye said hastily, stepping back, “I’m kinda in the mood for a walk tonight. And besides, I’d be just a bit worried about catching fire.” The priest opened his mouth to protest, then paused, peering at Hawkeye consideringly. He stepped out, letting his tent door fall shut behind him.
“Do you mind if I accompany you?” Mulcahy asked, fiddling with the cross around his neck. “I’ve always found a walk before bed is just the thing to sooth a thoughtful mind.”
Hawkeye considered saying no, even opened his mouth intending to refuse, but instead found himself saying, “Counting sheep not cutting it for you tonight, Father?”
Mulcahy chuckled, falling in step beside Hawkeye. “Actually, I prefer to count rosary beads. I’m not particularly fond of sheep; a bad encounter when I was a boy.”
Hawkeye glanced sideways at the priest, but the man looked as earnest as he always did. “What did it do, sneak into the church and startle the alter boys? “
Mulcahy chuckled again. “No, actually. It was on a visit to a farm as a young child. I made the mistake of attempting to befriend what I believed to be a friendly ewe. It turned out to be a rather temperamental ram. It chased me around the field and up a tree, where I spent a large portion of the night before my mother realized I was missing.” Despite himself, Hawkeye laughed, the sound breaking out of him and taking him aback. Mulcahy smiled, pleased; the doctor laughed quietly to himself for the next couple minutes until they reached the end of the compound. The two men paused on the road leading northward for a moment and Hawkeye leaned against the minefield warning sign, his eyes shadowed. They were silent for several long moments. Finally, Hawkeye broke the silence.
“I’m not a very good person, am I, Father? A good doctor, sure, but not so much in the way of personhood.”
Mulcahy looked startled. “Why would you say that, my son?” The ‘son’ slipped out on reflex, but Hawkeye didn’t seem to notice. He kept his attention on the mine field.
“A good person…a good person would be upset on his friend’s behalf when said friend doesn’t get something that’s extremely important to them, something they deserve and need.” Hawkeye didn’t look at Father Mulcahy. Instead, he gripped the sign tightly until he felt splinters digging into his palm. “A good person wouldn’t be happy that his best friend is being forced to endure an ungodly amount of insanity, danger, and diarrhea when he should be at home braiding his daughter’s hair and lounging on the porch ignoring his wife’s to-do list.”
Mulchay didn’t say anything at first, staying quiet and staring contemplatively at the rocky terrain. “I believe,” he began carefully, slowly, testing the words out in his mouth, “that it is difficult to tell how people should feel. We often know what we should be feeling, we know what society tells us is the decent thing to feel, but that doesn’t mean that we always will feel the socially correct thing. The bible tells us Men should be selfless and honorable, placing another’s needs before his own. But in my experience, Man is rarely selfless when it comes to his own feelings, his own wants and desires. I don’t believe that there is anything wrong with feeling joy that you won’t have to give up a person that gives you a little bit of sanity in a part of the world that thrives on insanity. At least, for a little while longer.”
“But he’s stuck here,” Hawkeye whispered, crossing his arms on the sign, “He’s stuck in this crummy place in this crummy war because a bunch of crummy jerks think that having a hole in your stomach isn’t good enough to go home. And I’m happy that he isn’t leaving me alone to deal with all the crumminess alone. I can’t do that. Do you know how fast I’d go Section 8? He’s my lifeline; I need him.” His voice broke on the last line, and he buried his face in his arms, shutting out the night.
Slowly, carefully, Father Mulcahy moved his hand to Hawkeye’s shoulder. Hawkeye shifted his head sideways until he was looking at the priest, eyes glittering in the dim light of the stars and the moon.
“Being a good person isn’t dependent on what emotions you may or may not have at any given moment. No man is perfect and we all have feelings that we have reason to feel guilty about. What matters, is not what we feel; it’s how we act on those feelings. When you thought Trapper was going home, you acted were happy for him. You organized a farewell party, collected presents, made sure the Officer’s Club had plenty of milk stocked up. You were willing to do anything to ensure his happiness, despite your own feelings on the matter. And now that he’s staying, you will be there for every step of his recovery to cheer him up and reassure him. You are a good friend, Hawkeye Pierce. You should remember that.”
There was a small pause of silence, long enough that Mulcahy could feel his face heat up. Then Hawkeye broke the quiet, a half-smile forming.
“You rehearse that in the mirror, Father, or was it off the cuff?” He chuckled and, relieved, Mulcahy joined in, dropping his hand from Hawkeye’s shoulder.
“I’ll have to remember it for next weeks sermon,” Mulcahy joked. Hawkeye straightened and stretched, the bones in his back cracking. He turned, and headed back into the camp, keeping his strides slow so the shorter man had an easier time of keeping up. They stopped outside of Mulcahy’s tent. With a smile and a nod, Mulcahy opened the door.
“You know, Father.” Mulcahy paused, turning to look questioningly at Hawkeye, who was smiling, looking more relaxed than he had been all evening. “I don’t hold much for priests, but you…you’re tops.”
Mulcahy smiled, obviously pleased, and stepped into his tent, shutting the door gently. Hawkeye stood there for a short moment, until the relaxed smile dropped from his face and he turned away with a sigh, walking to the Swamp.
He paused at the door, glancing through the window. Trapper was lying on his bunk, a leg and an arm dangling off. Hawkeye quietly opened the door, trying not to dsiturb his roommate, but Trapper sat up anyway, rubbing a hand through his curly hair.
“You were gone awhile,” he said, covering a yawn with his hand. “Thought you might have been made an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“Nah,” Hawkeye said, sitting down on his cot and grabbing his shoe, “The best offer I had was a cockroach who wanted to sell it’s spawn for next week’s races.”
“Any good-looking ones?” Trapper asked, lying back down, an arm bracing around his stomach.
“There was one who was missing an antennae; that might cut down on speed resistance.” Hawkeye finally yanked his boot off and started on the other one.
“Balance might be an issue, though.”
“Where’s Frank?” The second boot dropped to the floor with a thump.
“Probably passed out on Hot Lip’s floor, drooling over her boots.” Trapper rolled over on his side, watching Hawkeye ball up his jacket and drop it on the floor. “You all right? You seemed a little off at the party.”
“Well can you blame me?” Hawkeye grumbled, pulling off his sock and tossing them onto Frank’s bed. “That little whopper you dropped. And after everyone got you presents! Very inconsiderate. Do you know how hard it was to find two cockroaches the perfect size for cuff links?”
“Very hard, I’m sure.” Trapper agreed.
Hawkeye crawled under his blanket, until the top of his head was just visible. “You’d better get some sleep. You’ve got several weeks of doing absolutely nothing to look forward to. I have it on good authority that can be exhausting.”
The two men fell silent. The only sound in the camp came from the muffled squeaks of bedsprings and the occasionally slam of the latrine door.
“Hawk?”
“What?” came the muffled reply.
“Thanks for tonight.”
“…What are best friends for?”